


stadium love

by theviolonist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't something she would do. It happens because it can't not, because her mouth is hot when he's near, because the way her lips feel afterwards can't be described and she presses into him almost out of need, as though she were learning how to hold her breath underwater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stadium love

"You're dirty," is the first thing she says to him. Actually no. The first thing she says is, " _Tu es sale,_ " and he looks at her with calm, black eyes, his face too placid and his mouth too wide.

"Hello," he says in broken English, holding out a hand. "I'm Viktor. I believe we will be competing."

She takes the proffered hand only in the name of sportsmanship, and because her parents beat politeness into her with soft, murmured reproaches. 

"We will," she says. It already runs in her veins, victory, like fire, she knows she's made for greatness.

He nods. She looks at him and it occurs to her, in a flash, that he might be a worthwhile adversary.

 

He finds her that night, in the library. She's bent over a book, her hair slipping out of its ribbon, her nightgown floating around her body, ghostly. 

"Is there someone there?" he asks when he walks in, conscious of a presence. His illuminated wand is like a lighthouse in the darkness that pools around him. 

She doesn't answer. 

He makes his way through the shelves, squinting, until he finds her. She looks up, chin high, defiant, but he doesn't look confrontational. 

"Fleur," he says softly. Her name sounds all wrong in his mouth. "What are you doing?"

She raises a condescending eyebrow, _what do you think?_. She'll crush him.

He blushes a little, a dark red that spreads to the swarthy skin of his neck. "Of course," he says, "I'm sorry to bother you," but he doesn't move, just stands there, still brandishing his wand. 

"What are _you_ here for?" she bites, closing her book. She can't trust, not now, not ever. Trust is weakness. Besides, she doesn't like him. 

A smile flits over his lips, so quick she thinks she might have imagined it. "I, uh – I wanted to learn more about creatures," he says. It irritates her that he won't lie. "But I can come back later."

"You can stay," Fleur says. 

He nods, drags the chair away from the table, sits. Every rustle is deafening in the silence, the room seems too large, like immensities are hiding away in the darkness; when Fleur looks up she meets Viktor's eyes head on, unblinking, his pupils large and tar-black. She squirms in her chair. 

She waits for him to look away, that would be the polite thing to do, but he doesn't. Instead he keeps looking, until Fleur is excruciatingly conscious of her own face, how she must look like this, disheveled, without make-up or earrings, the Veela in her doing all the work for once. But this isn't it. The Veela isn't why he's looking, Fleur is convinced of that. 

Now someone has to do something. It won't be her, it can't be her, but the night is incandescent and their books are closed, won't be opened again. He looks so calm – it makes her angry, makes her self-conscious, every movement a message, something he will catch and interpret, the deduced meaning safely guarded behind his eyelids.

 _Move_ , she thinks, wishing once again that she knew wandless magic, could draw him to her without consequence. His face is asymmetrical, graceless. 

Eventually, after what seems like hours but is probably only a few minutes, he reaches a hand across the table. His fingers brush her cheek, the rough pad of his thumb skims over her bottom lip. She draws in breath. 

In a flash – he lunges across the table, like an animal, his hand curls at the nape of her neck and he kisses her, hard. She sinks her teeth into his lip, determined to fight back. At least this won't be affection, but she can feel it pulsing in the hollow of her ribs anyway, just beneath her heart: this is something she needs. 

 

Boys back home don't touch her like that. It's as simple as that, really: boys back home take her hand and lace their fingers with hers, it's nice, it's sweet, they kiss the hollow of her clavicle and they revere her; but this boy pushes her against the damp walls of the castle and ravishes her, his mouth full of words she doesn't understand, and it's something else.

When they're not together they're apart, they stand at the core of their respective groups, pieces of advice fusing from all sides, how to defeat the competition, rumors about what the tasks are going to be. 

"I hear there's going to be dragons," says Justine, her frizzy red hair like a halo around her head.

Fleur brushes the comment off, irritated for a reason she won't acknowledge. So what if there are dragons? She can deal with fire. She looks at Viktor but he doesn't look back, focused on what one of his companions is saying, their collars adorned with grey fur even though the hall is warm, the heaths crackling with fire. 

It's only when she goes that night that she remembers to be afraid, when her robes are halfway down her hips, her pouty mouth laughing at her in the mirror. _This is life or death,_ Madame Maxime had said lightly, as though it weren't important; now Fleur wants to protest that she's just a child.

 

(He makes her forget. Yes, it's a good excuse, he's intoxicating and when his tongue is in her mouth she can't talk, she can't think, she's an electric wire, she's ablaze and there's no vacant space to be afraid.

When he talks she's dizzy, she doesn't listen. She used to always listen, but now it's too much, she can't. She wraps her legs around his hips, draws him in and lets his body cover hers until she doesn't exist anymore, says, "Come on," her eyes closed.)

 

"It's tomorrow," he says. He passes her the Firewhiskey. 

They know each other by now: she takes it with two dainty fingers and doesn't answer. If she did she would be afraid to admit that she doesn't want this, that her pride is a facade and that people who can fly make her feel like they're taunting god. 

He wraps an arm around her shoulders. "You're afraid?" he asks. 

She looks ahead: the night is dark and hides all sorts of creatures. This game is so cruel, she thinks unexpectedly. No one should be allowed to throw them into it. 

"No," she says. "Of course not." She turns towards him and kisses him, keeping her eyes open all the way through it. 

It isn't something she would do. It happens because it can't not, because her mouth is hot when he's near, because the way her lips feel afterwards can't be described and she presses into him almost out of need, as though she were learning how to hold her breath underwater. 

When she pulls away his lips curl into a smile. It feels made for another face, a face better than his. He tilts his head. " _Tu as peur?_ "

She's surprised for a second, and then - " _Oui_ ," she says, looking right into his eyes. 

They fall asleep under the stars and wake up nearly frozen, their skin red and feeling energized, new. When they kiss it's like licking an icicle, something that makes no sense but that you keep doing anyway.

 

The crowd is screaming. Fleur thinks of gladiators. For once, the sight of Viktor hanging perilously on the same edge as her is oddly comforting. 

 

The hedge is hurting her back. It's tearing into her clothes, taking scraps of blue with it and she gasps - she should've known this tournament would be the end of her. Sensation ripples through her. Her mouth hurts, it's and red and full with blood and this is too much, this is entirely too much, this is more than her diet of emotion and Fleur is going to get fat with it, is going to inflate like a balloon and then burst, a hundred of tiny pieces, pink and blue and gold. 

His mouth drags on her neck, and she arches up, her hips searching. She moans but it's not her voice because it's not her, and she takes his head in her hands, palms hurting with the rough scrape of his closely shorn hair. 

"Fleur," he says, his tongue heavy and foreign. 

She doesn't answer. She doesn't say his name back. This is the last time.

 _Que dirait ta mère, Fleur?_ she wonders, shaken by deep shivers when his tongue laves her clavicle and he looks up, his eyes too black, without any speckles of gold. _Les gens comme nous..._ People like us. People like us don't do things like that. 

Well, Fleur thinks, _merde_ \- and she hauls him up, hooks her fingers in the elastic of her skirt and draws it down, guides him into her, his face mashed into her shoulder.

 

She doesn't say goodbye. Goodbye is for lesser people, and the world has turned too dark for a tawdry break-up to still be appropriate. She flatters the neck of her horse for longer than she should, its hooves raking nervously in the mud, half-hoping to see him walk out the castle. He doesn't. 

"Well, then," says Fleur as she hops into the carriage, and resolves not to give it another thought. 

 

He's there at her wedding. He's in the back, silent, watchful. His gift is a book she'd told him she wanted back then, a long time ago; it's irritating that he just assumed she wouldn't have gotten it after all this time but it's even more irritating that he's right. His date whispers in his ear every so often and Fleur wants to strangle her but it's not jealousy, it's just her usual possessiveness when it comes to men she touched. She thinks she ought to scar them forever. 

When the exchange of the vows comes he doesn't look away. His eyes are black and the look into them isn't jealousy either. Instead it's pure, unabashed hunger and Fleur shivers, despite herself.


End file.
